Premonition
by Beth Weasley
Summary: She has dreams, and even when she can't remember them, she lets them guide her life. Because she's learned that not listening to them can easily kill, and she's not always the one in danger. T for language and a make-out scene. Part One of the Seer series
1. Chapter 1

Welcome, one and all, to my very first Riddick fanfiction. This story is the first of three, each of which corresponding to a portion of the canon trilogy: _Pitch Black, Chronicles of Riddick: Dark Fury, _and _Chronicles of Riddick._ This is, partially, a self-insertion. While the new character resembles me physically and in her attitudes, she is by no means me. I hope that I have been able to work out the 'extra person on the Hunter-Gratzner' cliche without being _too_ cliche. The entire series is written already, but I would still like to know what you think; there is a definite possibility that I may write a few shorts set in this universe. Thanks, and enjoy the ride!

**Premonition**

A _Pitch Black_ Alternate Universe

Chapter One

When I was ten, my parents sat me down and informed me that I had been adopted when I was only a few days old. Okay, yeah, so it's not even uncommon, let alone special. But for me, it helped explain why I was, to put it simply, different from all my classmates. The difference that almost everyone spotted right away was my habit of wearing sunglasses… _everywhere_. My only haven was my room, where the lights were set to power up to just twenty-five percent unless I—and no one else—ordered otherwise.

I was always picked first when our class had sports during the recreation period. It wasn't because I was bigger or stronger than the others in my class, because I wasn't. I was chosen because I was the fastest, the most agile, and, oddly, the most accurate when throwing or hitting any sort of ball. I hated it. It was so boring, because I knew whichever team I was on would win, and they would win because of me. How… blah. Of course, it didn't help that I could hear the other girls when they whispered about me behind my back, thinking I was out of earshot. Their most frequent complaint was that I couldn't possibly be a _girl_, not and be so good at the boys' games.

Normally, being adopted wouldn't explain any of that, but, when my parents had woken to the doorbell and found me bundled up on their doorstep, they also found a cheap message-pad. It contained a letter from my birth mother, with a partial explanation of why she had left me and what they could expect as I grew up. It wasn't the whole story, of course, because it left too many questions unanswered.

Why had my birth father been killed before he could even know of me?

Why had my birth mother been hunted, and by whom?

How did they come by the heightened senses that I inherited?

A part of me, some sort of instinct, warned that researching those questions would lead to bad things, though I didn't know what those bad things might be. Perhaps the same hunters would be brought down upon myself and my adoptive parents.

That's the other weird thing, the only one I've never truly come to terms with; I get hunches and premonitions like normal people get fast food. Usually, it's just little things. I'll go to work by a different route one day, only to find out a few hours later that my usual one was a snarl of traffic due to a bad accident. Sometimes, it'll show up as extreme distrust of a potential client, who later lost their case, often badly.

Actually, I use those instincts the most when I'm working. I'm a legal assistant, working for a high-priced firm that does business—and has offices—all over the 'Verse. My specific area of focus is criminology, using crime scene evidence to construct a template of possible culprits, and also doing the reverse, using psycho-sociological analysis of a suspect to determine whether, from the nature and specifics of the crime itself, they could have done it. I'm damned good at it, too. Three times in as many years, my skills have busted a case wide open, clearing the firm's client and setting the government's eyes on the real perpetrator.

As part of that work, I had access to a great many criminal records. Not only do I keep a list of crooks that may be at large, I keep a similar list of mercs doing business and cashing in paydays. My records on the hunters are just as extensive as the ones on their prey; I know how often a particular merc is successful, how many they've brought in, and, most importantly to my mind, how they treat those bounties. That would probably explain why I hate mercs more than crooks. The crooks get punished for doing bad things to others, for violating the Human Rights Act that was passed ages ago. The mercs, on the other hand, can get away with anything they might do to a captured criminal, and some of them were really brutal.

On top of that, some of those paydays have records that are suspect. That is, I'm not entirely sure they could have done all that's attributed to them. The most frustrating one of all is Mr. Richard B. Riddick, the most notorious murderer in the 'Verse. There is essentially no information there except who he's been convicted of killing, and it drives me insane. How can any analysis be made if his psycho-sociological profile is 'Classified?' And how can his age and birthplace be 'Unknown?' There's a rat somewhere in there, I know, but where, and what has it done, I have often wondered.

Don't get me wrong. My intuition is useful most of the time, and it has yet to fail me. But, sometimes, glimpsing the future can be a real bitch.


	2. Chapter 2

On to Chapter Two. Yes, it's slow so far, but it won't be for much longer...

**Premonition**

A _Pitch Black_ Alternate Universe

Chapter Two

It wasn't that unusual for me to wake up abruptly and start doing something before my mind caught up with my body. Usually, though, that 'something' wasn't packing for a trip. In fact, make it practically never. But I'd found myself doing just that, and from what I'd gotten together before I became aware, I was going to be roughing it. As in 'absolutely the back end of nowhere with no amenities to be had' roughing it. Shit.

Of course, knowing that much, I called my immediate boss, the lawyer in charge of our teeny little branch office. Jamie was a cool guy, one I'd known almost my entire life. He'd lived just down the street from my adoptive parents, and I considered him to be my big brother. Since Mom and Dad died, Jamie's been all the family I have, and therefore he knew about my premonitions.

"What's up, 'Leen? You look like a skimmer wreck." I scowled at his image and bit back the usual urge to snap that 'my name is _Ei_leen, please use both syllables.' He didn't look much better than he said I did, anyway.

"Got a strong one, Jamie," I replied instead. "Really strong. I was packing when things started to register." He sighed and rubbed the side of his face tiredly. A quick glance at the clock told me why: it was only six-thirty in the morning. Crap.

"You know I'll back you all the way if the main office says anything. Honestly, I don't think they care _what_ you do, so long as you keep bringing in gems like the Carver case." That one, only a couple months earlier, had been all but balls-up when I got my hands on the actual crime scene footage. The client had been cleared, and her accuser put away instead, as he'd been the one to torment and then kill the victims.

"Yeah, well, from what's already packed, it looks like the shit's gonna really hit the fan on this one. I have no idea how long it'll take."

"Hey, if you gotta go, Eileen, then you gotta go." This was said kindly. "Pack your system, though. Anywhere with an interstellar comm array…"

"…is a potential office, I know. Don't miss me too much, Cartwright," I teased.

"Every damned minute, Bergenhaus," he countered. "Be careful, will ya? And let me know if you get any more details." I nodded mutely before breaking the connection and running a hand through my horribly tangled hair.

Fortunately, my internal countdown clock told me I had enough time to properly get ready for what lay ahead. I sat down with a tablet and stylus, carefully clearing my mind of conscious thought and letting go just a bit. I had to be cautious on how much running room I gave to my subconscious, or I might find myself packed and halfway to wherever before I got back my control.

Still, when I looked at the complete and detailed packing list three hours later, my stomach felt like a solid chunk of lead. There was an emergency med-pack on there that rivaled those carried by field medics in The Company's active units. It contained anaestaphine, which is really just an injectable form of euthanasia. The side effects of a dose would kill a healthy person, painfully, but the same amount would numb a dying man so that he could pass with at least some peace. The thought made my empty stomach roll. Liquid O2 capsules and breathers that would allow hits of pure oxygen were there, too, indicating that 'wherever' wasn't going to have enough of the vital element in the air. And the inclusion of nearly half my considerable arsenal was worrying.

I know what you're thinking. 'Why does a legal assistant own an arsenal?' Frankly, I like fighting. In fact, I'd prefer a straight-up physical brawl to half the stuff I waded through in the courtroom, even when I wasn't physically there. The local dojo is run by a couple of Company vets who were combat instructors before the Wailing Wars called them into active duty. They've taught me everything they've ever learned about combat and are rather proud of the fact that I can fight them to a standstill when it's two-on-one against me. My firearms skill is top-notch, almost at sniper level. They've only ever encountered one person who picked things up faster than I did, and that guy… well, he's at the top of every Most-Wanted list the government has.

I may only be 1.7 meters tall and mass 53 kilos, but I have speed, agility, and the knowledge to use them effectively against any opponent. Never before had I been as grateful for that training as I was while reading that list. Most of the weapons were ones that I was comfortable with, though there was a pair of daggers listed that I'd never liked. Hadn't even known why I bought them, in fact, until then. Someone was going to be 'wherever' for whom those vicious blades would be perfect.

As I pulled things out to organize for packing, I thought about how to best do so. My rifle, all the pistols—both projectile and pulse pistols—and the ammo and power packs would easily fit into my largest rifle case, with room left for most of the bladed weapons. The survival gear could be condensed to fit into two mid-sized duffels, with just enough room left for a couple changes of clothing and my hygiene kit.

Some of the survival stuff had to be special-ordered, though it would arrive within a day or two once I had. That included the med-kit, enough emergency rations to last a dozen people a week, and a pair of sunglasses rather similar to my own custom lenses. Mine were wraparounds, just shy of welding-goggle strength polarization, and the edges were trimmed with a bit of padding that formed a tight but comfortable seal all the way around, so that I didn't get blinded by stray unfiltered rays in my peripheral vision. The new ones were larger, as though they were for a large man, and instead of earpieces like mine, they were strung on an elastic strap.

The rest, I could buy locally with a simple trip to the open-air market a couple kilometers away. Ten pairs of normal sunglasses, a liter bottle of high-factor sunscreen, some extra tampons of my preferred brand—they blocked odor so that I didn't have to smell myself—and a couple of big jugs that would fit perfectly in the bottoms of my duffels, large enough to hold ten liters of water each. All that gear would come close to maxing out my lift-and-carry limit, but there was no such thing as too well prepared, not in my book.

When I looked around my apartment two days later, I just knew that it would be a long time before I returned to this place. At least I didn't have any plants or animals that would need care in the interim. Besides, Jamie had the spare key, and he knew I was going to be enduring cryo, so it was going to be a long trip. And with that oh-so-cheerful thought, I headed for the spaceport. My ship, whichever one it was, had only a few hours remaining before launch.


	3. Chapter 3

Icarus Station is named as a nod to Lynx Klaw, whose "Chronicle of Darkness" features a Daedalus Station. And now we really start rolling...

**Premonition**

A _Pitch Black_ Alternate Universe

Chapter Three

A lot of ships pass through the spacedocks; Icarus Station is just a hop, skip, and a jump from the Conga System, and it's the last place to refuel and load up between there and Tangiers, the next inhabited system towards the galactic core. As usual, almost every berth was occupied, and the crowds were almost oppressively thick. It was difficult to fall into my usual swinging stride when I had to squeeze by someone every third or fourth meter.

Grinding my teeth, I absently tugged on a stray lock of my drab, dark blonde hair. The weight of my equipment wasn't bothering me, it was more the feeling of precious minutes slipping through my fingers. The lives which I suspected would depend on me were heavier than any pack could be. Then, Fate herself intervened.

"Hunter-Gratzner, bound for Tangiers, has twenty minutes of loading time remaining." The bland, impersonal voice repeated its message over the Public Address system. I wasted no time in getting to the nearest Information Kiosk. Once I knew where the ship was, I headed for it at an equally brisk pace.

I got there just as two men backed away from a cooling seal on the cargo container. At least the passengers weren't locked inside yet; when I verbalized my opinion, the younger workman laughed, and his partner fought down a smile.

"May I check your ticket, ma'am?" an obsequious woman asked, striding toward me in a suit that made her look like a tart.

"Well, ma'am, I don't have one, but I can pay for my passage to Tangiers." That seemed to satisfy her, as she wasted no time in scanning my bank chip with her reader. With a bright smile, she handed it back to me.

"Thank you for choosing the New Oslo Shipping Company. One of these gentlemen will show you to your cryo-locker and get you secured. Enjoy your trip!" Then she was off again. The younger man eyed me, visibly estimating the volume of myself and my belongings.

"I think we can get everything into your locker with you," he said affably. Dreading the weeks of cryo that I was about to endure, I followed. I barely paid any attention to the passengers on either side as we made our way forward. Then, in the last quarter of the ship, faces began to register.

An Irishman, recognizable more for the shape of his features that the color of his hair, which was black. He looked like a scientist of some sort.

A dark-skinned man and three browned boys, two of them on either side, all dressed in Muslim robes. They were probably on hajj to New Mecca, which was even further core-ward than Tangiers.

A weedy little man who wore old-fashioned corrective glasses and gave off the vibe of a merchant.

A pair of prospectors, a man and a woman, though why she wore a triple strand of black pearls was beyond me. That sort of portable wealth was far too easily stolen for prospectors to risk using it. Sentimental reasons, perhaps?

A kid, definitely too young to be safe traveling alone. Though the manner of dress was that of a boy, there were too many subtle feminine features. Smart, though; boys were less likely to be molested than girls, even if they were by themselves.

'Well, hel_lo_,' I thought as I saw the next two lockers. On the right, there was a merc—William J. Johns, to be exact, one of the more brutal bully-boys in circulation—and his payday in a reinforced locker across from him. The doors read, 'No Early Release' as the lockout protocol, too. I couldn't really tell _who_ the prisoner was, between the wide blindfold and the horse bit that distorted his mouth, jaw, and cheeks. And if that wasn't enough, the guy was wearing heavy manacles and shackles. Where did Johns think the guy was going while full of cryo-juice? I could cheerfully gut the merc at that point.

There was just one locker left open, crammed between the larger reinforced locker and the forward bulkhead of the passenger module. I stepped into it with my rifle case still slung behind me, trapping it between me and the locker with no room to shift as I did up the safety harness. The crewman carefully stuffed a duffel on either side of my legs as I took several deep, calming breaths.

I hate cryo. I've always been told that you're supposed to be put to sleep by the drugs, but it doesn't work that way for me. I stay aware the whole time, though I can sometimes play card games in my head or even zone out completely. Still, talk about boring.

Murphy's damned Law, I happened to be looking right at Johns when my head and neck locked up. 'Man,' I thought, 'I'm going to be _so_ sick of his ugly mug by the time this shit gets out of my system.'


	4. Chapter 4

Voila, we have now caught up to the beginning of the movie. I know, it only took nearly half the story, but the next four chapters tend to be longer than the first three. Big changes ahead! On a side note, the moves Eileen uses when fighting _are_ doable; my younger brother has seven inches or more on me and a good thirty or forty pounds, and I can render him helpless with one move. Funny what you learn in the Army.

**Premonition**

A _Pitch Black_ Alternate Universe

Chapter Four

I had actually succeeded in zoning out when a peculiar _ping-zip-ping_ sound reached me. We were maybe halfway through the journey, but nowhere near an appropriate stopping point for repairs, which would be necessary if that sound was what I thought it was. Then I heard the crew coming out of cryo—only the younger two, though; the woman, Fry, babbled something about the captain being dead. When she mentioned that we were hemorrhaging air, I had to squash my first instinct to panic. Panic was _not _going to help, not when I was stuck in one position anyway.

'Shit,' I thought. 'No way we're getting to Tangiers in this ship _now_.' There was a peculiar lurch as the H-G was caught by a gravity well of some sort. Emergency lights came on in the passenger module, and I felt the cryo drugs begin to leach themselves out of my system.

A thump and accompanying violent jerk told me and Owens both that Fry had made a purge, presumably dumping the main engines. She sounded like she was panicking, and that didn't reassure me one bit. I felt the temperature begin to rise, atmospheric friction heating the hull and therefore the air inside. Part of the hull must have torn then; red-orange light began to creep into my vision from the back end of the section.

The force of impact with the surface knocked my cryo-locker over, where it wedged itself between the forward bulkhead and the criminal's locker. Even as I regained control of my motor functions and tried wrenching myself from side to side, it stayed stuck in that tilted position, not quite vertical anymore. I shifted my gaze to the airlock, spotting a massive wrench jamming the mechanism open. It must have been Owens that did it; he was yelling at Fry about pulling up. Okay, so the pilot was more into self-preservation than the prospect of dying for a bunch of people she didn't know. I didn't _like_ it, but it was only natural to feel that way.

I looked the other way just as the cargo pod ripped away, taking the end of the cabin with it. Just barely able to see beyond the big cryo-locker, I knew that others were being sucked out into the ship's howling wake. A violent shudder and a growing roar signaled our impact with the surface as, meter by meter, the section disintegrated. A sudden lurch threw me against my restraints, and I could see more of the reddish light coming through the airlock now. My locker remained stuck, but the door popped open, so I began to unbuckle.

I could see five lockers on the other side of the cabin, and guessed that there were only five or six left on my side as well. Three-quarters of the passengers were simply _gone_, killed by the crash landing, hopefully without ever rousing from their artificial sleep. I tumbled out onto the decking as screams rose from the direction of the command module.

I had to squint as I squeezed through the remains of the airlock and dashed across a few meters of dust and dirt to enter the mangled control center. I'd snagged my duffels as a reflex, and was immensely glad of the fact when I saw the cause of the navigator's cries. Nine others surrounded me within a couple of moments, everyone that I'd noticed except the con and the Irishman. A length of conduit protruded from the center of Owens' chest, most certainly a fatal wound.

"There's some anaestaphine in the med-lock in the back," the blonde pilot directed with an absent gesture. I wasn't the only one who turned to see the gaping hole where the bulkhead had been ripped off. Nothing was left on the bits of it that were still attached to the passenger module.

"Not anymore," Johns replied before anyone else could be a bit more gentle about the fact. In fact, he looked almost gleeful, and a sickening scent surrounded him. The scent of addiction.

"I have some here." I dug out the field kit and found a syringe of the powerful narcotic, handing it carefully to Fry. She directed a desperately grateful look at me, and I rested a hand on her shoulder before pushing eight survivors out ahead of me. From the bits I'd heard during the crash, the pair had been crewing together for quite a while. Panic or no, she deserved a chance to say goodbye to her friend in private.

This was part of why I was called to this ship and this flight, I began to realize. Just as the anaestaphine had been needed, so would everything else I'd packed. Without me, Owens would have died in agony, torturing Fry with every scream. I could happily leave Johns here to bake, though.

That was when I noticed that he hadn't been among those I'd guided back to the dubious shelter of our former conveyance. The reason was obvious as soon as I spotted him; with the assistance of his baton, Johns was forcing his prisoner over to a bent support beam, likely to chain the bigger man to it. Seeing the swift and regular rise and fall of the club, the last of my reluctance to actively confront the merc vanished.

I shoved past the others, dropping my duffels next to the girl and giving her a sharp look. She responded well, nodding and wrapping her hands in their straps. I crossed the last few meters quickly and silently.

My left fist drove sharply into Johns' right kidney, the pain causing him to jerk to a perfectly vertical stance. Then my right hand grabbed his right wrist, my thumb digging cruelly into the tendons on the inside, which spasmed and made him drop the stick. A third smooth motion twisted the arm up behind his back, causing him to lean forward and howl in pain.

"How do _you_ like it, motherfucker?" I screamed in his ear as the blindfolded man stumbled another meter or so, until he was well out of reach. "It's not so much fun when you're the one whose ass is getting whipped by someone smaller, huh?" I yanked on his arm again, putting more of my weight on his back so that he couldn't possibly throw me off. He screamed again. "I know your number, Mr. Johns. You fuckin' mercs think you're such hot shit. Think again, asshole." A little leverage turned us both toward the missing rear of the ship, and I stepped back, still holding his arm, before planting a combat boot on his rear and kicking just as I let go. He tumbled out into the harsh light as I turned away, only partly to spare my burning eyes.

Then I began to observe the other man, who was on his knees in the shadows, balled up defensively. Damn, he was big, and ripped to boot. Purplish stripes were becoming evident across his shoulders, and I had no doubt that his black wife-beater hid more. A quick gesture to the girl brought her closer as I began to speak in low, calm tones to the man, as though he were a feral animal.

"Take it easy. I'm not going to hurt you," I assured him. Quickly, I dipped into one duffel and brought out two pairs of sunglasses, my own and one of the smallest of the regular pairs. I slipped mine on, then handed the others to the girl, who grinned and donned them. Now that I could see without pain, I turned back to the former captive.

"Okay, I'm going to take that damned bit off. That all right?" The jerkiness of his nod told me how scared he was to be at the complete mercy of someone he couldn't even see. This was apparently an unusual position for him to be in. I kept talking as I worked on the buckle at the base of his skull, simply trying to give him sound so that he knew where I was in relation to him. Hopefully, that would keep him from startling at the slightest touch and accidentally crushing me or something. When the piece of metal and leather finally fell away, he scooted further into the shadows and worked his jaw around to loosen it up.

"Why?" Just that one word, uttered in a voice like gravel, caused shivers to run down my spine, and they weren't the kind caused by fear or dread.

"Because it's the right thing to do," I replied simply. Movement in the corner of my eye turned me to find a red-faced Johns ducking back inside.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he roared at me. I didn't so much as blink; Sergeants Drift and Callahan had been more intimidating on their off days. The disrespect, when I had proved just minutes earlier that I could physically overpower him, only made me more angry.

"Keys, merc." He hesitated, and my next word came out in a growl that had frightened Jamie The Unflappable. "_Now_." All color drained from the man's face as he fumbled at his belt. His throw was off by a wide margin, something that I just knew was deliberate, but my left hand darted out and snagged the tiny missile with ease. How stupid did he think I was? I spun and had the manacles open before he could possibly react, and was working on the shackles when he did.

"Are you _insane_?! That's Riddick, he'll kill you before you can blink!" I raised one eyebrow in the bounty-hunter's direction.

"Really. An honor to meet you, Mr. Riddick. My instructors have spoken highly of you. Eileen Bergenhaus." I extended a hand, not actually expecting him to take it, given that he was still blindfolded. Then his hand grasped mine, not to shake it, but to assist himself in rising. Instantly I braced against his weight and leaned back, adding what leverage I could.

"Too bright," he then said, moving deeper into the shadows. 'I was right about his height,' I thought as I reached into the same duffel as before. Despite how close it was bringing her to Riddick, the girl was sticking to me like a limpet, and that garnered some respect from me. It took but a moment to find the special-order shades I'd gotten.

"These should help quite a bit," I said as I handed them over. His fingers began gliding over the lenses, examining them by touch.

"How much polarization?"

"The same as welding goggles, maybe a little stronger," I replied. "They'll help." I wasn't about to mention my own problems with excess light, not with Johns in earshot. Apparently satisfied by my assurances, Riddick yanked off the blindfold and slipped the shades on, my brief glimpse of his eyes showing that he'd screwed them shut. The padded edges looked to be making a good seal against his skin.

"Nice." Then he looked at me, a long, searching glance that went from the tips of my combat boots to the very top of my head. I could feel his eyes on me, even though I couldn't see them. "_You_ took on Johns and won?"

"Black belt in aikido, multi-disciplinary martial arts, and Company hand-to-hand tactics from a couple of Sergeants who remembered you fondly," I replied, a bit of venom slipping into my voice. Then I grinned savagely. "It doesn't hurt to be a natural, either." That brought a smirk to his face.

The smallest Muslim boy darted inside and began babbling to his chaperone in what I guessed was Arabic. The older man turned to the rest of us, a slightly grim look on his weathered features.

"Ali says that there are two suns outside," he translated. Well, there was the reason for the sunglasses and sunscreen.

"So… What do we do now?" Fry's question—I had to wonder when she'd emerged from the command module—made everyone but Johns turn to look at me and perhaps Riddick as well, since he stood behind me.

'Great,' I thought. 'Guess who's been elected leader of this bunch.'


	5. Chapter 5

Most of Eileen's orders to the rest of the survivors are practical suggestions that would apply in any even remotely similar situation. Her rifle is of a similar design to the US military's M-16A, with which I am intimately familar. The knives which Riddick picks out are essentially identical to the 'Saber Claw' blades he picks up when escaping Crematoria in _Chronicles_. Again, enjoy the fic!

**Premonition**

A _Pitch Black_ Alternate Universe

Chapter Five

I'm a self-sufficient woman, don't get me wrong, but having nine almost complete strangers looking to me for direction was more than a bit unnerving. Still, something had wanted me here, and had wanted me prepared for this situation. I was going to have to be the one to lead them out of here.

"Two suns," I mused. "It's likely that there's little to no water out there, then." The man shook his head. I turned to the girl. "What's your name, kid?"

"I'm Jack." Oh, she was obviously good at this gender-bender game, even getting her voice that little notch lower that made her sound more like a boy. The touch of awe in her tone was a little uncomfortable, though.

"I'm going to need everyone's names," I said, looking around the group. "Beats saying, 'Hey, you!' all the time." That surprised a chuckle out of everyone but the three boys, and I was guessing that they didn't understand English any more than I did Arabic. Soon, everyone was introducing themselves.

The little guy was 'Paris P. Ogilvie, antiquities dealer, entrepreneur.' The Muslim gentleman was Imam Abu al-Walid, with his wards Suleiman, Hassan, and Ali, in descending order by age. Shazza and Zeke were, as I had guessed, a couple, married even, but she offered no explanation for her pricey necklace, and I wasn't going to pry.

The Irishman was still missing, and it worried me; why had I noticed him if he wasn't to survive the crash? There _were_ twelve of us left at this point, though I really wished I could leave Johns to twist in the wind.

"Now… I think we should check the closest wreckage. Some of the last lockers to go may not have taken enough damage to kill their occupant." The others looked skeptical, but I began handing out sunglasses anyway. The sunscreen got set on top of an overturned locker. "Everyone be sure to get a good layer of this. Two suns means you'll burn in half the time or less, and sun poisoning is not only unpleasant, but very difficult to treat. Don't make me have to do it, because it's gross and painful." Huh. From the way they were beginning to act after that statement, maybe they were starting to believe me.

The debris trail looked really bad. The ship had created a wide furrow that stretched to the horizon, bits and flecks of metal visible all along it. I wasn't one hundred percent sure, but I thought I could see at least three lockers nearby, and any one of them could be the Irishman.

"Don't get too spread out," I called as the others began searching. I picked one of the boxy shapes and headed for it, only to find a bloody, pulped mess inside.

As luck would have it, Shazza and Zeke found the man. He was rather woozy from a bad knock to the head, and a bit dehydrated, but managed to give us a name and occupation before he passed out; Sean O'Connell, astrophysicist. Now thirteen strong, we returned to the 'intact' part of the ship, where I began constructing breathers from the parts I'd packed. If I was out of breath from just that little activity, then it must really bother the others.

"Why do you have so much _stuff_?" Shazza asked bluntly as I tinkered. "And how come you have just what we need?"

"Honestly?" I replied. "I haven't a clue. I get these… urges, that's all. I trust my instincts to get me through." Happily, everyone seemed to accept that, though Riddick gave me a very long look.

I finished the breathers just as everyone was getting done with their drinks, courtesy of my ten-liter jugs. After passing out the devices, I laid my rifle case flat on the decking and began opening the latches.

"We leave nothing of immediate practical use here," I said matter-of-factly. "Some of you should rig up a sled with long drag lines, 'cause I'm not leaving a single good power cell behind. If there's stuff we can use in the cargo pod—_practical_ use, Paris, I'm sure New Oslo Shipping will recover the rest for you—then it comes, too. Lastly…" I flipped the top of the case open so everyone could see the contents. "Everyone goes armed with something they can handle safely. Yes, Johns, even Riddick. In fact, _especially_ him, since he's likely the most experienced fighter here."

"You flatter me," the convict interjected wryly.

"Blame it on Sergeants Drift and Callahan," I replied. His grin practically told me that he knew exactly who I meant. "Nobody goes anywhere alone, and the kids need to have an adult with them at all times, no matter how many of them are together." I waved a hand at the array of weapons. "The rifle and long daggers are _mine_, but help yourselves to the rest."

Riddick leaned over first, picking up the pair of blades that I'd never liked. They were vicious things; a straightforward grip, with the blade sweeping back over the knuckles and extending several centimeters beyond the end of the grips. The first arc of each knife, where it rounded the wielder's index finger, was adorned with four drilled holes and a set of wicked serrations. Brass knuckles with a major attitude problem, in my eyes. I could see that Riddick was enraptured with them.

Most of the other survivors took one blade and one pistol each, though the kids stuck to small knives. Johns didn't even bother to come look at what was available. I strapped my daggers across my back to where a hilt rested at each hip for a quick draw. Then I ran a quick visual inspection of my rifle before slapping in a full clip. The 'snick' as it seated properly got the merc's attention.

"Can you even _use_ that, little girl?" he asked with a sneer. I glared behind my sunglasses.

"Tell you what, I'll even let you pick a target. You'll see just how good I am." The entire group followed us outside, where the man pointed at one of the tall spires on a ridge that was relatively north of the wreck. He then demanded that I hit as close to the bottom of it as I could. Visual estimate put them at about half a kilometer away, but I calmly went to one knee, braced my right elbow on my raised left knee, sighted—I never use a scope, because it feels too much like cheating—and gently squeezed the trigger. My rifle barked, and a puff of dust rose from the base of the spire Johns had chosen.

I ejected the shell and looked up just in time to watch the spire crumble in upon itself, accompanied by a chorus of inhuman shrieks.

"I get the feeling we're not alone here," I commented dryly. Dread began to coil in my stomach.


	6. Chapter 6

The stated effects of hollow-point rounds are rather accurate; those nasty littl buggers are made to go in clean and make as much of a mess as possible going out. Just as a reminder, Eileen's senses are razor-sharp, so she tends to pick up on things most normal people wouldn't. Blood does smell coppery, and tastes like it, though the major mineral present is iron. Don't know why, but it does. Enjoy!

**Premonition**

A _Pitch Black_ Alternate Universe

Chapter Six

Most of the survivors turned to making and loading the sled while I headed for the destroyed spire, closely followed by Johns, Fry, and Riddick. As I walked, I put Riddick between me and the other two. If the sources of those weird cries were, as I was guessing, an indigenous species, we really needed to know whether they were a danger to us and why we hadn't seen them already.

Despite the demise of the spire, it was clear upon close inspection that I had certainly aced Johns' little test. There was a neat, clean little hole in the center of the southern face, maybe ten centimeters above the surrounding ground. Of course, I habitually used hollow-point bullets, which had blown a huge chunk out of the north side of the spire. That had been the cause of the collapse, and there was now a meter, meter-and-a-half wide hole in the ground there.

By now, I could smell the fear rolling off the merc and the pilot, and I glanced at Riddick. It was clear that we were standing on top of a cave system, perhaps a vast one, and beyond the light from the hole, nothing could be seen. He laid on his stomach, close to the hole, then glanced up at me.

"Cover me." I switched my rifle to automatic fire and pointed it into the hole as Riddick scooted up to peer over the edge. His glasses were only on his forehead for a moment before the whooping cries started and rapidly increased in volume. Suddenly, he was rolling away as fast as he could. "Fuck! Shit!" I barely waited for him to get clear before sending a burst of fire into the pit. There were more of those ear-jarring shrieks of pain, and then I heard the distinct sound of tearing flesh. I almost had to puke.

"What did you see?" I asked when the noise level had decreased. Riddick, shades back down over his eyes, shook his head.

"Ugly motherfuckers. They were avoiding the light, both from this hole and the other spires; they're hollow. A lot of little ones, but really huge fuckers, too. Probably eat anything that bleeds."

"So when my shots hit one, the others went into a feeding frenzy, like old Earth's sharks." I looked around. "We need to be outta here before it gets dark." I was facing west, toward the setting red and orange suns. Then I felt light and heat on my back, and turned to gape. A blazing ball of blue fire was just cresting the eastern horizon.

"_Three_ fuckin' suns?!" Surprisingly, we'd all said it at the same time.

"That explains the damn things being holed up underground," I muttered. "But they have to be able to come out sometime."

"I really don't want to be here when it happens," Fry said, her voice trembling.

"Then we pick a direction and get going."

When we got back to the wreckage, the sled was loaded and Imam had a big grin on his face.

"Blue sun, blue water," he explained. "It is a sign from Allah." I grimaced, but didn't argue. I don't have much use for religion, and it doesn't usually have any for me. But, hey, it was a direction, and nearly a quarter of the group was very happy about it. I slung my rifle and picked up the end of one of the cables attached to the makeshift sled.

"Everybody grab on. The more of us pulling, the faster and easier it'll be." There was enough space for everyone except the kids to get a good hold.

Jack was still hauling my duffels, and now my nearly-empty rifle case, too. Without the weapons, and with only half the water in the jugs, she was having an easier time of it than before. I vowed right then to take her aside when everyone needed a break. She was beginning to smell faintly of blood, and those carnivores would be all over her if it got dark.

When Hassan and Suleiman spotted 'trees,' I was skeptical. I had yet to see evidence of any plants, let alone water-guzzlers like trees. The place was too damn dry. I was right, though; what they'd seen was actually the skeletal remains of some gigantic creature's dorsal fins or plates. The whole valley was filled with skeletons, as though they'd all died right there. They'd probably been eaten by the dark-loving creatures we'd discovered.

We stopped in the shade of a giant ribcage for a bit of rest and water. Seeing my opportunity, I pulled Jack away from the rest of the group.

"Calm down, kiddo," I told her when she seemed on the verge of panic. "I know your secret, and I think Riddick's figured it out, too, but I won't tell the others."

"Y-you won't?" she squeaked.

"Nah, I know how it can be. We have a problem, though." Jack gave me a wide-eyed look. "You've started bleeding, and the critters that killed these things and haunt the dark will smell it on you."

"Oh god, oh god. What am I gonna do?" I pressed a small packet into her hand and some of my spare clothes.

"Odor-blocking. Use 'em myself 'cause I can't stand the smell." I looked around "Go get it taken care of now. I'll keep lookout. And leave the dirty stuff here. Don't need 'em tracking us over some stupid clothes." She nodded and ducked into the shelter of a large hip-type bone.

"Dealt with that problem, huh?" I nearly jumped out of my skin when Riddick murmured in my ear. It seemed that his voice was naturally rough. I hit him for sneaking up on me, and not gently, but he smiled.

"Yes," I answered. "She reeks already. Figured that would be a big handicap if the lights went out on us." I paused, considering how much I could trust him. My instincts seemed to be saying I could tell him anything and everything. "They _are_ gonna go out before we get off this rock. I hope Johns gets careless enough in his withdrawal to be eaten." The con's honest chuckle was infectious.

"So you can smell he's a hype?" the big man asked. I nodded minutely. "He won't take a hit without privacy." We exchanged savage grins. He was going to get stupider and stupider, and then we'd be shut of him. "Premonitions, Eileen?" he asked silkily. My name sounded _so_ good on his lips. "Since when?" Riddick's hands ghosted along my sides, almost but not quite touching.

"Long as I can remember. Made sports boring." He chuckled again, and I leaned into his solid presence. "Couldn't hear you. That's a first."

"Hmm. Smell things like I do, hearing too… Sight?"

"Lights at my place only go to quarter power. Wear my shades everywhere else." He purred—honest to God, just like some sorta big cat—and I shuddered involuntarily.

"Something to explore later, then." And just like that, he was gone again. Jack stepped out of the shadows, fiddling with her—_my_—pants.

"Thanks," she whispered. I smiled.

"Anytime, kid." I hesitated then. "You runnin'?"

"From my step-dad," she replied quietly.

"You got nowhere else to go, you're welcome with me. 'Kay?"

"Thank you!" She flung herself at me, and I returned the hug.

"We need to get going. I can almost feel the darkness closing in."

It didn't take long to get the group going again. We passed through a canyon that nearly had me cringing. There were water marks on the walls; they were old, but not centuries old. Maybe a couple decades, and that was worrisome.

Cresting one last hill we all stopped and stared at the settlement in front of us. I could clearly see a battered and bent vaporator, and a glimmer on the other side of the group of buildings that might just be our ticket out of there. I didn't say anything, not wanting to raise false hopes in case it wasn't some sort of spacecraft.

"There doesn't seem to be anybody home," Zeke grumbled as we descended. I ignored him, the grouch, in favor of examining the odd brown marks on the walls of the buildings. They almost looked like splattered mud and something else. The very faint coppery smell as I passed close to one made me recoil. That was blood… _human_ blood!

"Shit!" I blurted. Having attracted everyone's attention, I had to reveal what I'd deduced. "Nobody's home because they got eaten last time it got dark out." Several faces went white.

"Nice," Johns spat. "Think you're funny, trying to scare everyone? They coulda been picked up by a drop ship." I snarled, turning and getting right up in his face.

"Tell me those dark splatters aren't dried blood, merc. They. Never. Left." My gut was quite firm on that fact. Then I noticed how bad he was shaking. "Nervous, Johns? Or are you missing your fix?" White began to show all around his irises. "Do _not_ challenge me again, boyo, or we _will_ go 'round." He backed away, then stumbled and fell when I lunged at him. "You make me _sick_."

The sled got parked next to the vaporator, which Imam and his boys promptly began fixing. Fry took up a position that clearly said she was watching Johns, while Zeke, Shazza, and Paris started to discuss something. Sean took Jack and headed off to explore buildings, while Riddick and I turned toward the far side of the settlement without saying a word. I noticed he was looking awfully pleased with himself.

"What?" I growled when the others were out of sight.

"Liked that alpha female moment, seein' you shoot him down like that. He thinks he's Billy Bad-Ass." I scoffed, but froze the moment we rounded the last corner.

In a clear, level area—a home-grown tarmac—stood an old emergency skiff, its ramp open and several gaping tears in the wing material. We had a way out.


	7. Chapter 7

Official _Pitch Black_ information--Johns' chase log in particular--clearly states that the merc used kids in order to catch Riddick. Last chapter, folks! I hope you enjoyed. Please drop me a line and let me know what you think.

**Premonition**

A _Pitch Black_ Alternate Universe

Chapter Seven

"There's a system model in that building," Jack was saying as we rejoined the group.

"Thirty revolutions for every eleven standard years," Sean pitched in. "Once every sixty revolutions, this planet undergoes a complete and total eclipse. We found core samples over there dated twenty-two years ago this month."

"We could go dark any time now?" Paris asked, voice shrill. Sean and Jack both nodded solemnly.

"Then we'll have to work quickly," I decided. "Fry, we need you to reconfigure power cells for the skiff we found. Shazza, Zeke, the wings need patching. See what you can find. Imam, you and the kids collect as much water as you can from that vaporator, in whatever sealable containers you can dig up. Sean, Johns, Paris, you're to gather any provisions you can find. Remember, groups of two or more." Fry hurried to catch up as Riddick and I turned around once again. He'd hoisted two of the heavy power cells, one over each shoulder, while Fry and I struggled with the other three that we needed.

"Johns keeps trying to get somebody's glasses or sneak off by himself," the pilot told me, gasping with effort. "He won't pull his weight anymore."

"He's in withdrawal. He'll do more and more stupid things until he gets a fix or gets killed. He doesn't want to shoot up around anyone else, either," I explained. I was hoping Sean, being a big guy, would break one or two of the merc's bones, 'cause he was sure to try something soon.

My cold attitude toward the bounty hunter seemed to scare Fry; she let go of the cell between us and shuffled quickly toward the now-visible skiff. I ground my teeth and pulled, the combined weight of the cells seventeen kilos more than my full mass.

Riddick took them both out of my hands a moment later, having already left his two in the skiff. Fry was rewiring by the time I stumbled up, exhausted, and she rudely ordered the big guy to toss the twenty-two-year-old ninety-gig cell. He did, but he wasn't at all nice about it, and then he ushered me over into the shade under one wing. His glance told me what he wanted to know.

"Twelve of us are getting outta here, no more," I muttered. "That's all that could possibly fit in there, and that's all I packed for—emergency rations for a week and a dozen people. If I can help it, Johns is getting left behind. Fry, too, if she keeps being a royal bitch." He drew me close, and, killer or not, it felt damned good to be held by Riddick. "Told Jack she could stay with me since she doesn't have anyone else."

"Cute kid," he replied. "Better than the holy man's boys." I nodded and just basked in his presence for a bit.

I had finally found someone like me, reflexes, senses, and all. Well, maybe not the premonitions part, but…

"What color are your eyes?" It took a minute for the question to penetrate my temporary bliss.

"Bluish, but they gleam silver in the dark." Riddick's arm tightened, almost but not quite to the point of pain.

"Mine _were_ brown, but they're silver all the time now." He took a deep breath. "Johns killed a kid in order to catch me. Three-year-old."

"Then he dies slowly," I snarled. I was always at my best when a case involved a hurt or dead child. The skiff's ramp hissed closed. "If she does anything more than a hull integrity test, so help me God, I'll stake her out next to the merc." Perhaps fifteen minutes later, it lowered again, and I took my left hand off the hilt of my dagger.

"Patch up the wings, and we'll be good to go," Fry announced smugly. I frowned at her, and she seemed to intuit my question. "I got it all stuffed back down in that hole. It'll be tight for thirteen, though." I just smirked, and she backed up two steps.

"That won't be a problem," Riddick growled. "Find Shazza and Zeke and get to work on the damn wings." White-faced and wide-eyed, Fry took off. She rounded the corner, and then my mind went haywire.

One large palm was cupping my cheek, the fingers threaded through my hair, and firm lips covered mine. I moaned, and my next clear thought was registering that I'd straddled the big man and was kissing him just as hard as he was me. Then I heard voices approaching.

"Fuck!" I swore. At this point, we weren't likely to get another moment alone, not for a long while. And damned if I wasn't hot for him in a bad way.

I stomped on my libido as the prospectors and pilot came around the corner carrying a big roll of what looked to be mylar sheeting. The synthetic would be ideal for patching the wings; we only needed the flight surfaces to get out of the atmosphere, and it wasn't like we'd be setting down on another planet. The plan was to get as far as the Sol-track shipping lanes—the ones Hunter-Gratzner had been on to begin with—and stick out a metaphorical thumb. First ship that had a bay would be obliged to reel us in.

We'd gotten about two-thirds of the wings done when I noticed the dark smudge on the horizon.

"Fuck! Time's runnin' out!" I stood for a moment and bellowed in the direction of the vaporator, then went back to work, only faster. Sean, Paris, Imam, and the kids showed up with the sled and started loading things into the skiff without any instruction.

"Where the hell is Johns?" Shazza wondered aloud.

"Don't know, could care less," I replied quickly. "Prob'ly shooting up and not gonna make it here." I whacked in a few more fasteners before noticing her shocked stare. "He killed a three-year-old to get Riddick, Shazz. He ain't worth the effort. At least _he's_ never hurt a kid or a woman who wasn't attacking him." I jerked my head in the direction of my man, and she got back to work.

We finished just as the first of two sets of planetary rings covered the lower, orange sun. The blue sun was already out of sight. Fry swung from the wings directly into the skiff, turning on all the lights and beginning to run-up the engines.

Riddick and I grabbed the sled and simply pitched its remaining contents inside. The kids were next, then Shazza, Zeke, Paris, and finally Sean.

"Just Johns left," Paris gasped.

"Fuck him. He went off on his own, he can live or die on his own. His choice," I responded, dropping my side of the sled. Riddick and I stepped in, side by side, as the red sun was also covered by a ring.

The ramp came up slowly, almost painfully so. The two of us stood at its edge, shades perched on our heads and blades bared, while an unholy shrieking filled the air. With it came a horde of tiny predators, no bigger than a small dog. Those that dared to come within reach paid dearly, carcasses and thick, blue blood splattering on the ramp and sizzling in the light.

Twice, I heard Johns fire his big gauge, and then there was a barely audible scream. Asshole was dead, and good riddance. I hit one last creature as the ramp closed, and its little body tumbled inside as the ramp sealed with a hiss. Fry hit the thrusters almost immediately.

I watched the tiny corpses and the blood all but evaporate in the light, until nothing was left but skeletons. We'd made it by the skin of our teeth.

"Gonna be a lotta questions, whoever picks us up," Jack mused from the copilot's seat. "Could even be mercs. So whadda we tell 'em 'bout you?" even squinting in the light, I could tell she was looking at Riddick.

"We don't even mention him," I said firmly, touching his arm gently. "_Especially_ not to mercs. We'll say one of us is wounded, just barely stable but not enough to be moved out of the skiff. I'll be a medic, and I'll stay with him to 'make sure he stays stable.' We straight?" Everyone nodded except the three boys, and as soon as Imam had finished translating for them, they agreed, too.

Now I had to rely on Fate to bring us a ride before the water and rations ran out.


End file.
